My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  Upon closer inspection, the dude has a broad, distinctive face, unbelievably high cheekbones as if he’s wearing highlighter, and the most sculpted nose that I have ever seen. I can’t stop staring. It looks like he should be auditioning for a reality television show instead of a corporate job. He’s movie-star handsome! He catches my eye again and tries to suppress his amusement. Confused, I stare at him. Why is he laughing at me?

  Before I can say anything else, Uncle Dai rushes into the room and beelines over to me, beaming.

  “You sleeping, huh, Weijun?” he asks. “That is why no one pick up the phone?”

  “Huh?” I say, confused.

  “You taking nap? The jet lag?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, astonished.

  He gestures at my outfit. Then, with a shock of embarrassment, I realize that I’m still wearing a fluffy pink house robe and Hello Kitty slippers. And I’m not wearing anything underneath! I still have my clay face mask on! I forgot to get changed. I forgot to wash off my face. Luckily, the robe is large and long and thick enough to cover me. I flush deeply, but no one can see my inflamed face under the concrete superhero mask of horsehair.

  Is this a group job interview?

  Are these all of Uncle Dai’s aspiring interns?

  Do they all want to be like him in some capacity? This must be some sort of board meeting, and I have been accidentally summoned to participate. Before I can ask to be excused to go back to the suite to change, he indicates the conference table.

  “Interview now,” he says.

  “For what?” I say. “Am I being considered for a job?”

  He bursts out laughing. “Helper for you,” he says.

  I’m even more confused.

  Everyone quickly takes a seat around the conference table, and it slowly becomes apparent that Uncle Dai is hiring someone. A thick stack of résumés and folders is in front of him.

  “This is my niece, Wang Weijun. All the way from America. She need the help.”

  The group of students politely applaud.

  Uncle Dai whispers at me, “Chinese business manner. You have to clap back.”

  Awkwardly, I clap and smile at them.

  “Louder,” Uncle Dai says.

  I clap a few more times, like I’m a teacher trying to get a kindergarten class’s attention.

  As if we’re playing some kind of game of Uncle Dai Says, they all applaud again. But this time, the clapping is much louder, as if I’m a prima ballerina or even a dancing bear performing at the circus and this is my final encore.

  I’m slightly flabbergasted.

  No one has ever clapped for me before. Is this applause because I am Uncle Dai’s niece? Am I going to be given a personal assistant/shopper/servant? I sit up instantly, almost forgetting that I’m in a neon-pink housecoat and I have clay and horsehair smudged all over my face like toothpaste. I have always known that I was worthy of someone to fetch me low-fat lattes and answer my emails.

  He points at the first person on the right of him, a nervous-looking boy with a sweating problem. “Zhao-Ru,” Uncle Dai barks. “You are number six in class from Fudan University. What can you teach Wang Weijun?”

  The boy nods. He jumps out of his chair, knocking it over as he attempts to bow awkwardly. “I can help her find success with mathematics and statistics.”

  The boy glances at me and bows, hands clasped in front of him.

  Should I stand up and bow back? Just like the clapping?

  It seems as if everyone is waiting for me to say or do something, but I can’t be sure. How does a hiring manager behave in Beijing?

  When in doubt, isn’t it best to imitate the behavior of those around me?

  Isn’t life just a fun game of charades?

  Jumping up, I attempt to bow back, but as I lean over, I realize my house robe has come undone. The nervous boy reddens. Shit! I knew I should have shaved this morning.

  Quickly, I attempt to hide myself and luckily, no one else seems to notice because they’ve all averted their eyes. To cover my stumble, I attempt to curtsy, but I have never curtsied before except when I was four years old and my dad enrolled me with him in a preschool parent-and-baby tap dance. In my fumbling attempt to cross my legs and half curtsy, I almost lose my balance and fall on my face.

  “Weijun, sit down now, we have next person,” Uncle Dai says, looking confused.

  I scramble to take my seat, nearly knocking over a pitcher of water in my hurry.

  Uncle Dai continues on to the girl with the glasses. “Tingwei. Number three at Peking University. You study psychology? Very good. Why you want to teach Weijun?”

  “This will be a good learning experience for me,” the girl says, examining the ground. “I want to be a teacher.”

  “Why teacher?” Uncle Dai says, sounding perplexed. “Teacher is very poor. You should get MBA at Stanford.”

  The girl flushes and agrees with him without hesitation.

  It becomes apparent that this is not a position for my personal assistant.

  When my parents were hiring me tutors, we looked on Craigslist. We asked friends who recommended reputable teachers or smart older siblings. We checked the advertisements in the Bradley Gardens local paper. In China, it appears that hiring a personal tutor requires fancy business suits, three-page résumés printed on embroidered paper, and a formal group interview.

  “Okay, next question, Yurao of Peking University.” He points at a baby-faced kid with acne and a humongous nose. “What is life goal after Bachelor of Engineering degree?”

  “I want to get to an MBA at Stanford!” the kid exclaims eagerly. “I want to be a CEO like you, Mr. Feng.”

  Uncle Dai humphs in what seems like approval.

  Finally, it’s the boy in the navy-blue cardigan’s turn. He’s the only one who looks like a model posing as an old-person librarian, not a wannabe stockbroker. He catches my eye again and winks. Blushing slightly, I catch myself winking back. Not on purpose, I tell myself—my eyeball twitch seems to be returning due to nervousness. I want Mr. Pageant Dude to succeed. Then I can at least find an excuse to get his number.

  “Chaoren!” Uncle Dai barks, pointing at him. “You went to Beijing Normal University as math major? Number ten?”

  Frowning slightly, the dude who was previously laughing at me shakes his head.

  “Mr. Feng, my name is actually Liao Faxian. Frank Liao,” he says confidently, correcting Uncle Dai. “I’m a classical English and Chinese major at Tsinghua University. Number one in my class.”

  Nervous, frantic stares are exchanged around the table. Everyone looks like they’ve eaten too many slices of greasy pepperoni pizza and deep-fried jalapeño cheese sticks. I get a feeling that my uncle is not someone who is contradicted often, if at all.

  I’m impressed by Blue Cardigan’s fearless attitude.

  I don’t think my uncle, however, is impressed.

  Frowning, Uncle Dai turns to me. “Weijun, we are finding you good Chinese language tutor. I promise your daddy to help with school. So I have assistant find you best smartest student in China. You have question to ask them?”

  “Will there be homework?” I say, but no one laughs.

  Why doesn’t anyone have a sense of humor in China?

  Why is everyone so serious?

  Except for the boy in the cardigan, they all look as if they’re on an airplane, waiting to find out if there is going to be an emergency crash landing into an erupting volcano. You’d think that Uncle Dai was Godzilla.

  At the end of the question round, there is a two-hour essay component to test their English and Mandarin writing skills. As the students begin furiously scribbling in booklets, Uncle Dai turns to me and beckons for us to exit the conference room.

  “We are done now,” he says.

  “What?” I say.

  “I already pick tutor for you,” he said.

  “So fast?” I say, stunned.

  I don’t even try to hide my disappointment.

 
I didn’t even have time to get the good-looking boy’s number.

  Admittedly, I just want a friend so badly in China that even the nervous, sweaty boy would do. Anyone who understands a medium level of English, anyone friendly who isn’t of Uncle Dai’s age group. This is the longest that I have gone without texting Samira and Peter. I don’t understand what people without human companions and all-inclusive long-distance plans do in their spare time. Who do they constantly talk to?

  “Shouldn’t we get to know my future tutors better?” I ask, gazing around the conference room hopefully. Everyone is writing intently in their booklets, eyebrows scrunched, lower lips stuck out in concentration. Honestly, if all job interviews are like China, I would be permanently unemployed. Don’t college students relax during the summer holidays?

  Sighing heavily, I follow Uncle Dai out of the room, leaving the eager students to finish their essays. At the front desk of the hotel, he picks up a heavy package. It looks suspiciously un-fun, and I give it the stink eye.

  We take the elevator back to the penthouse suite. Uncle Dai and I settle on the couches in the living room. A maid has left out strawberries, pineapples, sliced kiwis, an assorted plate of elegant cakes, and a fragrant pitcher of mango fruit tea on a table. Eagerly, I help myself to a passion-fruit swiss roll, a decadent slice of black sesame chiffon cake, and some purple potato and cheese bread.

  “Weijun, I have big favor to ask,” Uncle Dai says seriously.

  “Yes?” I say, confused. I put down my plate reluctantly. Can’t Uncle Dai wait until I’ve taken my first bite?

  He continues, sounding worried. “Weijun, you are not like Ruby. She always afraid. She hiding behind silly dog show, but she is smarter girl and I want her to work at my company. Ruby doesn’t like to talk to people. I want her to be friendly and always smiling like you. As parent, you always want next generation to do better. You want best for them.”

  A door slams. Is Ruby home? Is she eavesdropping on our conversation?

  Gulping, I stare at my uncle. First, I’m still in shock about hiring a tutor. Does he actually expect me to do homework on my summer vacation abroad? And what does Uncle Dai mean about Ruby? Is this a lost-in-translation issue? Or does he actually think his daughter is shy like some kind of cute-looking rodent that has secretly sharp teeth?

  “Ruby is very sensitive girl, Weijun. You be her friend, okay? I worry a lot about her because she never have friend. Your dad said you have opposite problem. Too many friend.”

  Loud Mandarin pop music begins to blare from the maid’s quarters. My cousin is definitely home.

  “Ruby!” Uncle Dai says in a loud voice. “Stop practicing for show. No waste time! Please play violin instead!”

  Nodding firmly, Uncle Dai glances at me and continues. “Please spend time with your cousin. Take care of each other. Influence each other to be better.”

  The dance music from the speakers pulses louder.

  Incredulous, I stare at my uncle. Is he asking me to teach Ruby not to be a bully? They have school psychologists and counselors for that in America. Is there somehow a shortage of specialists in Beijing?

  “Ruby!” he calls again. “Come out and talk to your cousin, please. Weijun come all the way from America to visit.”

  Uncle Dai says something long and lecture-sounding at her in Chinese. He sounds a lot like my mom when she’s telling me not to go out on a weeknight, to be honest. For some reason, lecture voices sound eerily similar to my guilty conscience. The volume of the music causes the apartment’s walls to shake. Then it suddenly stops. A sullen Ruby appears, clutching a large stuffed dog animal. Apparently, she has been practicing for a doggy pageant.

  “Help Weijun study, okay?” he says, beaming as he hands me the package. “I make important phone call before dinner. Then I have good news surprise to tell Weijun later.”

  Uncle Dai presses the remote on a surround-sound system. Chinese opera, soft and classical, fills the suite. It’s the kind that people in nursing homes dress up for and drive to concert halls to spend a small fortune on. I suppose it’s helpful for studying.

  Ignoring her dad, Ruby switches the music back to her upbeat pageant routine. She stretches and begins prancing around, holding the large stuffed dog that she says is supposed to be a mastiff. Apparently, the theme for the year-end international competition is The Muppet Show, and the mastiff will be groomed to look like Miss Piggy. Ruby will be dressed as Kermit the Frog and has ordered a bright green jumpsuit from Italy.

  “That’s amazing,” I say, and I’m actually impressed by her dedication to the show’s theme.

  Ruby glances at me suspiciously.

  She continues strutting around the living room, holding the dog as a prop.

  I don’t know what else to say to my strange cousin.

  But then, as if the universe has heard me yelling SOS, her phone rings, and as she answers it, her face falls with shock. Rapid Chinese. Arguing for fifteen minutes. Pleading for five. Pink-faced, she scowls and slumps on the couch dramatically.

  I wait for my chance. This almost reminds me of Friday afternoons with Samira, when we would lie on her bed like an old married couple and make a long list of our life complaints and boy problems, while sucking down chocolate ice-cream floats and slurping Cheese Whiz straight out of a spray can.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask when she hangs up. “Seriously. Maybe I can help.”

  “Why?” she asks, frowning at me. Ruby chews her pinkie.

  “We’re cousins,” I say. “Isn’t family supposed to help?”

  “What about … your clothes?”

  A look of unmistakable guilt flashes across Ruby’s features.

  I wince.

  She sees my pained expression, and she looks ashamed.

  We both stare at the immaculate marble floor.

  “It’s fine,” I finally say, laughing awkwardly. “It’s a good excuse to get new ones.”

  Forgive and forget, right?

  The problem, Ruby reluctantly explains, is she needs someone to pick up a practice Tibetan mastiff that is being flown from a temple full of monks in the Himalayas. She can’t change the day of her dress fitting in Milan. Uncle Dai won’t let Mr. Chen watch her dog because he thinks that “dog grooming very silly.” But she’s going to fly in a different mastiff every four months since it takes a year to practice for the international competition. The rented dogs will be groomed and fed and then returned to the temple. Then the one with the best temperament will be paraded as Miss Piggy for the show.

  I stare at her, absolutely delighted. She’s flying in dogs from Tibet?!!

  “I could get the practice mastiff for you,” I offer, “while you get fitted for your costume in Italy!”

  How hard can picking up a dog at the airport be? I have no idea what kind of breed a Tibetan mastiff is, but aren’t rich people always carrying them around like tiny wallets? Ruby hesitates and looks doubtful.

  “I would love to help!” I repeat.

  “You would help me?” she says.

  “YES!” I enthuse, remembering what Uncle Dai said. I say again: “That’s what family is for!”

  Uncle Dai peeks his head out of his office at my enthusiasm. He gives us both a thumbs-up sign, which makes me laugh. I give him one back. He is acting exactly like my dad, always goofy and thrilled when someone in the house sounds like they are having fun. Ruby stares at me curiously. Uncle Dai said that I was supposed to hang out with Ruby to teach her people-skills, but Ruby seems to only care about dog shows. This is the perfect opportunity to show my cousin that I’m not an awful human being, and I could win a trophy for best dog-sitter of the year.

  Ruby nods hesitantly.

  “YES!” I say, incredibly eager to please. “You won’t regret it.”

  With a weird gravitational lurching in my tummy, I finally open Uncle Dai’s package. It consists of three cushion-size GED prep books and a Mandarin Language Beginner Guide. Wrinkling my nose, I open the first book and there is a
list, which is surprisingly easy to read. Then I realize that it’s just the Table of Contents, and there’s even more text to follow! Long paragraphs of numbers and equations and diagrams and I swear they’re not even written in English. Math was obviously designed by Pictionary-obsessed aliens who had access to robots to help them understand extra-sophisticated concepts. As I try to understand an equation, another horrible, panicky feeling rushes through me. I have never felt so much anxiety from learning before. Is this how teenage babysitters in slasher films feel when they get the scary phone call from the murderer who’s already hiding inside the house?

  Studying feels exactly like a horror movie.

  How do you even get your mind to focus?

  Recoiling, I wrap the books back in their packaging and stuff them underneath the bathroom sink.

  Out of sight, out of mind, right?

  The saying was specifically invented for me.

  Ruby has gone back to practicing her doggy walk in the living room, almost hopping like a frog. I start giggling again and pretend that I’m yawning whenever Ruby catches me quiet-laughing.

  I finally remember to scrub off my horsehair face and end up watching Ruby practice with her stuffed dog, which is far more interesting than the Shopping Channel.

  16

  Sibling Rivalry

  This time for dinner, Mr. Chen drives us to Opera Bombana, a fine-dining Michelin three-star Italian restaurant, and even more paparazzi than last night line up to take Uncle Dai’s photo. Five scowling security guards stand impressively around us, while reporters shout nonstop questions at Uncle Dai. A few people are even holding hand-painted signs and yelling passionately. I wish I understood Chinese so I could understand the fuss. Is Uncle Dai some kind of local celebrity?

  “What’s going on?” I say as Auntie Yingfei puts her arm around me and smiles sweetly.

  “We build hotel,” my uncle says, while my aunt nods with excitement.

  “Not malls?” I ask hopefully.

  “Just hotel.”

  “Shopping centers?” I ask.

  Uncle Dai shakes his head.